[ She doesn't put up a fuss, grunts something along the lines of fine, I get it and keeps her hands away from her face as she fumbles through taking her allotted rest time.
All the while, Ciri keeps her head down, moves slowly. Perhaps it seems to be out of fear, or at least because of the blindfold; it's mostly because she's straining her hearing to catch every footstep and rustle of clothing and saddlebags, trying to place where Dean is the whole time.
When his footsteps retreat some ways and she hears him messing with something for a good few seconds, she decides it's now or never.
On the one hand, she could play nice, sit still and hope that Geralt can use the sparse clues he's got so far to find her soon. The demon needs her alive, after all. And despite its threats, she's fairly sure it wouldn't risk the grand plan by severely injuring her. But the fact also remains that the desert is vast, and Geralt may be a literally superhuman tracker, but he's still limited by things like the passage of time and the huge distance.
By now, she's recovered enough from the struggle before that using her powers seems within reach. The fact they're unreliable is... a problem. But something should happen. If she ends up in the ocean again, at least she's not tied up.
Ciri reaches for the magic, screwing her eyes shut tight behind the blindfold and taking a deep breath. It used to be so easy. Like reaching toward a fire to feel its warmth. With the Singularity's interference, she's reaching through thick mud, knowing there's an ember in there somewhere.
She imagines, in as much detail as she can muster, her home in Cadens. The hearth, the sofa, the tables and chairs, Mog's little bed, the scent of fresh-baked bread that mixes with leather and sword oil, the precise color and pattern of the rug. Reaching for that flame. Stepping forward.
But nothing happens.
Breathless, angry and frustrated, feeling her window of opportunity becoming narrower by the moment, Ciri tries the next best thing. While Dean's still rustling and making noise far enough away to afford perhaps a sliver of a moment, she reaches up to shove her blindfold up just enough. And the moment anything is visible, Ciri reaches again for the more familiar door, lunging forward before Dean can catch her--
And vanishing, only to reappear about fifty feet away. There, she rips off her blindfold and does it again, this time reappearing another hundred feet or so in the distance, desperately scanning the horizon for landmarks. And anything she can use as a weapon. ]
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All the while, Ciri keeps her head down, moves slowly. Perhaps it seems to be out of fear, or at least because of the blindfold; it's mostly because she's straining her hearing to catch every footstep and rustle of clothing and saddlebags, trying to place where Dean is the whole time.
When his footsteps retreat some ways and she hears him messing with something for a good few seconds, she decides it's now or never.
On the one hand, she could play nice, sit still and hope that Geralt can use the sparse clues he's got so far to find her soon. The demon needs her alive, after all. And despite its threats, she's fairly sure it wouldn't risk the grand plan by severely injuring her. But the fact also remains that the desert is vast, and Geralt may be a literally superhuman tracker, but he's still limited by things like the passage of time and the huge distance.
By now, she's recovered enough from the struggle before that using her powers seems within reach. The fact they're unreliable is... a problem. But something should happen. If she ends up in the ocean again, at least she's not tied up.
Ciri reaches for the magic, screwing her eyes shut tight behind the blindfold and taking a deep breath. It used to be so easy. Like reaching toward a fire to feel its warmth. With the Singularity's interference, she's reaching through thick mud, knowing there's an ember in there somewhere.
She imagines, in as much detail as she can muster, her home in Cadens. The hearth, the sofa, the tables and chairs, Mog's little bed, the scent of fresh-baked bread that mixes with leather and sword oil, the precise color and pattern of the rug. Reaching for that flame. Stepping forward.
But nothing happens.
Breathless, angry and frustrated, feeling her window of opportunity becoming narrower by the moment, Ciri tries the next best thing. While Dean's still rustling and making noise far enough away to afford perhaps a sliver of a moment, she reaches up to shove her blindfold up just enough. And the moment anything is visible, Ciri reaches again for the more familiar door, lunging forward before Dean can catch her--
And vanishing, only to reappear about fifty feet away. There, she rips off her blindfold and does it again, this time reappearing another hundred feet or so in the distance, desperately scanning the horizon for landmarks. And anything she can use as a weapon. ]